


Ye imbeciles in present power/Doom’d, pompous, and absurd

by privatepenne



Category: American History RPF
Genre: its clayhoun yall, repost from my tumblr, shitty modern au, yall i dont even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7614310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/privatepenne/pseuds/privatepenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various short stories concerning Jacksonian politics transposed into the 21st century - overly flowery writing, Calhoun family struggles and overwrought political drama</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’d imagined himself here many times before. The crowd, the reporters, the cold wet January wind. Swearing on the bible. The influential politicians and military commanders surrounding him, both intimidated and eager. Chief Justice Marshall, careworn but still looking noble (he had hoped that it would be Marshall, since he had been Chief Justice since he’d been elected into Congress). The weight on his shoulders, knowing that as hard as the past seven months had been, the next four years would be harder. The next eight years. The camera would pan upward as the soundtrack played, focusing on the portrait of George Washington as the music swelled, triumphant and ominous as the screen faded to black, and that was how the first part of his biopic would end.

  
He would be standing at the West portico, ramrod straight, his hair touched with dignified grey, dressed in black, looking stern, looking like his father. His voice strong but solemn, impressed with the great responsibility he had been entrusted with. The future that his professors and colleagues had predicted, now vitrified with the final piece - himself, swearing to obey the laws of the Constitution, so help him God. Floride standing behind him with the children. They would still be together and in love and they’d already have plans for redecorating the East Wing. Andrew got into Yale. Anna Maria would be dreaming like he had about her own turn in her father’s place - a dynasty of conservatism, an all-American family.

  
He hadn’t imagined it like this.

  
“-and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter,-“ the atmosphere was electric. You could attach a cord to it and power the whole city. “-so help me God.”

  
He folded his hands. He’d decided not to wear gloves for the ceremony for the sake of his image. Anna Maria was standing next to him, smiling, looking away from him. Looking towards the rising sun, the next President of the United States of America. Her father. He ran his fingers over his wedding ring, smiling, glad that Robert had suggested vaseline for his teeth. What a strange sort of bargain he’d made.

  
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the President of the United States, Henry Clay!” The Chief Justice announced, hands raised in the white light of an overcast sky. Thunderous applause, cheering. The President grinning, reaching over, taking his hand. Anna Maria stepped backwards graciously, letting her father and step-father share a quick kiss.

  
He wanted to say congratulations but it was too loud, too much. He settled for a smile as his husband stepped between him and his daughter and took their hands and looked out over the American people assembled in front of them. The camera would pan upward, fade to black, roll credits. End of part one. An all-American family. A dynasty, or something like it.

* * *

 

“I thought that you’d be in bed already.”

  
Henry glanced up at him from over his reading glasses, his face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen. The room was pitch black besides the pale glow. “I’m just looking at the news coverage from today.”

  
“From yesterday, technically. It’s two in the morning.”

  
Henry huffed and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Don’t think I’d be able to sleep.”

  
John leaned against the door to their new parlor. It was cold, he’d have to talk to whomever was in charge about setting the thermostat. The White House was empty and strange, even more intimidating from the inside as from the outside. Their bedroom was unfamiliar terrain and he didn’t want to enter that minefield alone. He’d put it off for as long as possible, changing into pajamas, making last-minute calls and venturing downstairs for some late night tea. Anna Maria had been the most eager to get to her room that evening, sweeping through the West wing, her deep blue ballgown trailing after her, looking through cabinets and throwing herself on couches like she was ten years old again.

  
She’d wanted it as much as he did, he realized. That dream - she’d seen herself standing behind him just as vividly as he imagined standing there being sworn in.  
But evidently she’d accept seeing her other father being sworn in as well.

  
“You’ll be asleep before your head hits the pillow,” he replied, mustering up a little affection despite his fatigue. “We’ve been up near twenty-four hours.”  
“I’ve done longer.” A frown. “How are you and the kids holding up?”

  
“Fine. I’m glad Anna Maria is staying here, this place, this house, is…”

  
“A mess?”

  
“I was going to say that it’s too big for just us. But it’s sort of a mess, too. I feel bad about everything they said about Van Buren, you know, pouring money into it.”  
Henry steepled his hands, smiling. “Don’t be. He deserved it.” He rotated the computer around so John could see the screen. ”Hey, that’s not a bad one of you.”  
John leaned in and squinted. “Mm. You look like… old David Bowie without the makeup.”

  
“I know I’m not photogenic, sweetheart, I’ve made my peace with that.” Henry went back to typing. “I guess I’ll just have to settle for being a good president.”  
John stepped behind the couch and leaned over his husband, resting a hand on his shoulder. He was tense. Then again, he’d been tense for the past year. A lot of that dignified grey hair was a new addition.

  
“Come to bed, you idiot, you can look at your own face tomorrow morning.”

  
Henry pursed his lips. “President Idiot to you.”

  
John let himself smile and leaned over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to his cheek and turning to leave. “And that’s Senator Sweetheart to you.” He heard Henry chuckle and he stopped in the doorway. “Call White back tomorrow morning and thank him for brunch. Oh, and I told Robert that he’d have to handle the works bill paperwork on his own. And come to bed.”

  
Henry raised a hand over the couched twirled his fingers in the typical Henry Clay Yes-I’ll-Get-To-It.

  
John rolled his eyes. He was like a kid on Christmas; once you fall asleep it isn’t Christmas anymore and the magic is lost. Once they went to their big, empty, worn-out room then the inauguration would officially be over, all of its festivities and ceremonies, and the honeymoon period between winning the election and actually being elected would be done. One day was too quick, too much for a man to enjoy fully.

  
Well in that case, they’d just have to get Henry elected again.

  
Or maybe it would be him next time. He wasn’t young, but he still had time.

  
A dynasty isn’t built in eight years, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the promised Calhoun drama

They’d gone on two coffee dates and one dinner date, and that wasn’t counting the times that they went out together without ‘considering it a date’, and it didn’t include the integral of the time that they spent texting and calling and…emailing, if that’s how adults usually flirt.  He was a really great guy, he’d said.  Great guy.  That wasn’t a phrase that her father used.  Decent person?   Upstanding gentleman?  That was the way that John Calhoun would usually refer to a great guy.  She didn’t know why she was focusing so much on that one phrase, but it had burrowed into her head and refused to let go, constantly present through the entire school day.  Was he talking down to her?  Did he not think that she, an unusually precocious 16 year old, would understand what he was saying when he sat her down and told her that he was seeing someone?  
  
Anyways, it didn’t matter because she didn’t care.  He was an adult and he could do whatever he wanted to with his life, of course.  On some level she also knew that in a few years she’d be gone, and that he’d be an empty nester before he was forty.   
  
That was really sad.  Sad sad and pathetic sad.  
  
She’d wanted to cry when she went to bed that night.  She’d been looking forward to spending the year at her father’s after spending the summer with mom, and Andrew was still there, so they’d had the townhouse to themselves.  They’d had ethiopian takeout the night she got there, her favorite, and watched How It’s Made on the living room couch over a half bottle of moscato.  It was probably the best night she’d had that year.  She’d missed him so, so much.  She’d forgotten what it was like to have a better version of herself sitting next to her, talking shit about Daniel Webster and making cracks about their extended family.  
  
And then he’d put on his Politician face and told her frankly that over the summer he’d started seeing someone - not just anyone, oh no, the goddamn ex-House speaker, the smarmy fucking liberal poster-boy, darling of Buzzfeed and pithy-near-socialist-bumper-sticker-quote machine.  Really?  I don’t care who you date, she said stiffly.  If he makes you happy, I mean, you do your thing.  It’s your life.  
  
Yes, but it’s yours too, he’d responded, trying to adopt a normal human look of understanding.  You and Andrew are my first concern.  I know this is a… unusual situation, but I promise you, I wouldn’t have gone this far if I didn’t think that you’d at least get along with him.  He’s a great guy.  I like him a lot.  
  
She’d turned back to the tv, gaze flat.  Fine, she’d said.  Cool.  Thanks for telling me.  That was the extent of their conversation about Her Father’s Personal Life That Didn’t Involve Her (or Andrew).  
  
Hayne picked her up from school after her first day back.  She found him waiting outside the front entrance, leaning on his silver lexus shining in his silver suit and copper hair, somehow exempt from the heat and humidity that caused most other mortals to crumple like paper in a wet palm.  He was reading from his omnipresent ipad and beamed when he looked up and saw her.  
  
“Hey, kiddo!”  
  
She smiled, hiking her backpack up.  “Hey yourself, mister.”  She gave him a one-armed hug, not wanting to get sweat on his suit.  She hadn’t seen him in three months, but she followed him on instagram and he sent her constant snaps, so it was like they were never apart at all.  If Hayne were suddenly dating a senator, she’d definitely know.  Her and the rest of the world.  
  
She walked around to the passenger side and heaved her backpack in before she sat down, relaxing into the air conditioned seat as Hayne sat down next to her.  
  
“How’ve you been, sweetheart?  How was your summer?”  
  
“Oh, you know, it was.  Babysitting, reading, going to the beach, getting a tan, got my hair trimmed again….”  
  
“Meet anyone new?”  He grinned as he pulled out of his parking spot.  
  
“Nobody noteworthy,” she responded, picking at her nails.  A habit she’d picked up from her father.  She reminded herself to stop.  “But apparently my father did.”  
  
Hayne sighed.  “Ah, yeah.  He and Clay.  Gotta say, I was just as surprised as you. Glad he finally talked to you about it though, was that why he was so mopey today?”  
  
She frowned, shaking her short-cropped hair out of her eyes.  “Why was he mopey?  I didn’t do anything about it.  I told him that he was an adult and he could live his life however he wanted.  I hope he didn’t expect me to be, like-” she grasped for a word- “ebullient that he started randomly dating this guy and didn’t tell me about it until now.”  
  
Hayne hummed noncommittally, driving on.  “I guess he just wants to make sure that you’re really okay with it.  I know it’s got to be a shock, since you two are close and all…”  
  
“I’m fine.  I’m fantastic.“  She snapped.  “He’s got to find some way to amuse himself, so as long as I don’t have to see that individual more than I did before I’ll. be. wonderful.”  She cut the air with her hand for emphasis.  Drew her hand back, folded her arms.  “Sorry, that was rude.”  
  
Hayne smiled cheerfully as he switched lanes.  “Think nothin’ of it.  I mean, don’t blame you.  I know you probably haven’t heard many good things about him.  But he makes Calhoun happy for some god-blessed reason, whatever, and that’s what matters in this equation.  As long as you’re not deeply morally opposed to the man, we’ve both got to put up with him.  And remember, it’s just a few dates, it’s not like they’re gettin’ married or anything.”  
  
Knock on wood, she thought, a little bitterly.  
  
A month passed, and the Personal Life Event Which Did Not Involve Herself (or Andrew) remained, like a stone at the bottom of a pond, unmentioned between her and her father when they were together.  She was wrapped up in school work - she was taking as many advanced classes as possible and doing tutoring and music on the side, so she didn’t have a lot of time.  After three months of ennui, it felt great to be busy again.  And as much as the petty kid in her hated it, she wanted to be an adult here and scramble for the cozy normalcy that they’d always enjoyed; making fun of movies, reading over bills, running together in the evenings, looking at policy papers.  She’d spent a few Saturdays in his office helping out his staff or doing homework, and then they’d gone out to lunch together and she could almost pretend that that whole night hadn’t happened.  
  
They’d managed to avoid talking about that individual, somehow.  Although - she had looked him up on every form of social media that she could, and grilled Hayne and Senator White about him.  Whatever, she’d have to meet him at some point, since her father didn’t show any signs of breaking it off with him.  
  
She was lying on the leather couch in her father’s office on a Saturday morning doing her economics reading, looking down every once in a while to compulsively check her email.  Andrew sent her a snap of her mom’s border collie.  Cute, she thought.  The only good thing about mom’s house.  
  
There was a knock at the door.  “The Senator’s out,” she called, rolling over onto her side.  Her father had left to run a quick errand.  The door opened anyway, and in came Senator Clay, like a blond gust of wind, smiling and unruffled.  She sat up, smoothing out her turtleneck.  
  
“That’s a shame.  Know when he’s going to be back?” he asked cheerily.  She stared at him, practicing her Calhoun Glare.  Maybe if she stared hard enough he’d be incinerated.  
  
“He ought to be back within the hour if traffic cooperates.”  
  
Clay nodded, beaming.  “Great, I’ll check back again later.  I’m Henry Clay, by the way.  I think we met when you were a few years younger, right?”  
  
“Maybe.  Sure.”  
  
“Yeah, when John was first elected.  You must be Anna Maria, right?”  
  
“M hm.”  
  
“I’ve heard an awful lot about you.”  
  
“I can imagine.”  
  
“Only good things, of course.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Are you enjoying school?  I hear you’re a pretty clever young lady.”  
  
“By most standards, yes.”  
  
He smiled, eyebrows raised, and they spent a moment in the suffocating absence of conversation.  
  
“Well, I’ll be back, then.  Great talking with you.”  
  
“Yeah, you too,” she said atonally and laid back down to read as the door shut, stomach knotting and unknotting.  
  
The next time she saw him was later that week.  She’d had a day off for administrative break, so she’d spent the morning hanging out with her friends and the afternoon around the house, listening to music and doing work around the house.  She was halfway done summarizing the newest BLS data and she’d curled up on the couch to do it, enjoying the sound of rain pounding on the window.  A good east coast storm.  it was as dark as night outside and it wasn’t even 2 pm.  
  
She heard the front door open, and then the sound of muffled voices and shoes hitting the shoe basket.  Maybe Hayne’s coming over for dinner, she thought.  Then the door to the anteroom opened and she could hear - her father’s voice, it’s sharp drawl, saying, “you’re a menace, oh, my god,” and laughing.  
  
“Oh, come on, John, don’t tell me you care about a little water.  You’re not gonna melt, are you?”  
  
“If anyone’s the wicked witch of the west here it’s you, Henry, you and your silly ideas about not needin’ umbrellas because the sky was clear in the morning” her father said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.  “Come on, come upstairs, you can have some of my clothes, but you’re goin’ to ruin the carpet if you drip on it like that.”  
  
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t want me ruining your carpet,” Clay teased. “I guess you’d better get this shirt off me quickly.”  Her father snorted.   
  
Anna Maria slammed the papers down on the coffee table, equal parts angry and disgusted.  You come into my house, Clay?  She asked herself.  
  
“Maria, s’that you?” her father asked from the other side of the couch back.  
  
“I had a day off,” she responded coolly.  
  
He leaned over the back of the couch.  His wiry black hair was dripping onto the leather and his cheeks were flushed.  “Did you tell me that?”  
  
“I was goin’ to tell you last night, but you two were out.”  
  
“… Henry’s here.”  
  
“Hi, Henry,” she said, not moving.  
  
“Hi,”  Clay responded from his spot in the middle of the hall.  “I’m gonna go grab a towel, kay?”  
  
She heard him going upstairs and her father ran a hand through his hair.  “Maria-”  
  
“Dad, it’s fine.  I promise.  You don’t have to hide this from me.” He pursed his thin lips.  “And you’re dripping on the couch.  Go upstairs,”  she said, and picked up the papers again.   
  
She hoped that Clay didn’t expect to stay for dinner.  But he did, for some reason, wet-haired and dressed in her father’s slacks and Yale t-shirt, sitting at the dinner table like he was a member of the family.  She remembered what her mother said - you don’t have to be nice to everyone you meet, but you have to be polite.  She’d picked at her pasta and responded respectfully and curtly to his questions, showing as little human emotion as possible.  Oh, if mom could see me now, she thought.  She pretended not to see her father’s tightly-set jaw and excused herself as soon as she was done.  
  
It was raining again the next week as she left school.  She said goodbye to her friends as she left, opening her umbrella and jogging down to the street, trying to avoid getting her flats wet.  It was a great night to go home and cuddle up; she could almost feel the fleece blanket and tea.  Her phone buzzed in her pocket - it was her father.  
  
Hayne is sick, he texted.  i sent Henry to pick you up.  Black audi.  She stopped in her tracks, staring at the phone, affronted.  This was, what, the third time he’d tried to set her up with that individual?  She stared up at the sky and bit her lip, resisting the urge to throw her phone at the nearest solid surface.  This wasn’t supportable, it really wasn’t.  
  
“Hey!  Anna Maria!”  She looked up.  Clay peered out at her from the window of his car.  
  
She wanted to cry.  She put her phone back in her pocket and closed her umbrella as she walked up to her car.  
  
“Hop in,” he said with a smile.  
  
“I think I’d rather walk, thanks,” she said, responding with a tight-lipped smile to match.  
  
“Five miles in the rain?  Sounds fun.”  
  
“Yeah, it’ll be great.  Builds character.”   
  
Clay snorted at that one.  “Hey, it’s a ten minute drive.  Give me that, at least.”  
  
“Why couldn’t my father pick me up?”  
  
“Because he has an important committee meeting to attend.  But he told me to give you all his love.”  
  
She laughed.  “Yeah, that definitely sounds like him.  Definitely not another attempt to throw me together with you, hoping that I’ll suddenly magically like you against literally everything I’ve done so far.”  She opened her umbrella again. “He’s really mature, you know?  I mean, I’m petty, I know, but at least I come by it honestly.  Goddamn.”  
  
Clay’s smile had left his face, and he stared up at her, blue eyes flashing keenly.  He let her finish her monologue.  
  
“…Your books are going to get wet.”  
  
“M hm.”  
  
“And it’s prooooobably in your best interest to get in before I drive off without you.”  
  
“Is that a threat?”  
  
“Just an observation.”  Then, “Your dad would kill me if I left you here.”  
  
“I doubt he’d care.”  
  
“He’d - even so, it’s a waste of books.  For a petty reason, like you said.  It’s only for ten minutes, you can put up with me for that long.  We can listen to whatever radio station you want.”  
  
She tightened her jaw, the lump in her throat rising.  She wanted to go home.  She wanted to forget all about this.  She shrugged and flicked the water from her hair and walked around the front of the car to get into the passenger’s seat, hugging her damp backpack to her chest.  Clay turned on the seat warmer for the passenger’s side and punched on the radio, and she observed that he might be easier to put up with when he wasn’t trying to be nice to her.  Maybe she could put up with this tense, but companionable, silence.  
  
  
It was only ten minutes.  But, as her father could attest, that was all Henry Clay needed to change a mind.

* * *

 

Clay was already asleep by the time he gets a call, which meant that it was definitely too late for anybody else to be up.  Late to bed, late to rise.  He fumbled around blindly on the nightstand until he managed to grab his phone, squinting hard at the blindingly bright screen for a few seconds before managing to answer on the third attempt at swiping yes.

  
“Mmmhey, Anna, what’s going on?” he slurred, still completely disoriented.

  
“Hey, Clay,”  the voice on the other line started, hesitantly. “Sorry for calling you so late…”

  
Clay rolled over onto his stomach, rubbing his eyes.  It must be important if his boyfriend’s daughter was calling him so late.  “No, no.  What’s going on, kiddo?”  It was 1:09, according to his bedside clock.  He had a hearing with Ways and Means at 8 am.

  
“Yeah… Uh, I’m at a party in Edgewood and I don’t have a way to get home…”

  
Clay sat up, head still fuzzy.  “Can your dad not pick you up?”

  
“Clay.  I’m at a party on a Friday night.  In Edgewood.  Half the people here are completely, blackout drunk.  Can you make it here or not?”

  
Clay held the phone away from his face and sighed.  God damn it.  Kids.  “Uber, kiddo.”

  
“Credit card statement that my dad pays, kiddo.  Please?”  he could hear a note of desperation in her voice.

  
“Yeah, fine.  Text me the address, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”  He rolled out of bed and grabbed a pair of jeans from his open dresser drawer.  “Stay safe, ok?”

  
“Kay.  Thanks.”

  
He hung up and tossed his phone onto his bed, pulling on his pants.  By the time he was pulling out of the street parking lot, in jeans and an undershirt and slippers (the first shoes he found in the closet), Anna Maria had texted him an apartment address on the other side of town.  It was cold inside the car and he jabbed the seat warmer, willing it to warm up faster as he sped down the empty residential streets.  

  
He thought of himself as a teenager, sitting in his friend’s garage, lighting up, drinking and listening to rock.  He didn’t have a car yet, so he’d bike over there in the evenings after dinner while his mother was busy with the younger kids. Suburban Virginia was excruciatingly boring in the way that was best enjoyed with a bottle of stolen Captain Morgans and some girls from the next county over.  But he knew that Anna Maria didn’t like parties very much in general - he remembered her insisting that she didn’t want a birthday party, or asking John what the earliest time she could be picked up from a friend’s Christmas party without looking like a flake was.

  
What the hell was she doing, then?  She was going to be in so much trouble when her dad found out.

  
If he found out, that is.

  
He had to pull into an empty parking lot and put the address into his phone (he’d been too out of it to do it when he left) but he got to the place twenty minutes after he left.  He called Anna Maria back, craning his neck to see the building; an apartment building with only the top floor’s light on.  It was kind of a sketchy part of town.  I’m glad she called me, he admitted to himself.  It’s not safe for her wandering around here waiting for a cab.

  
“Hey, I’m here,”  he said as soon as the phone line connected.

  
“Thank Jesus.  I’m at the CVS on the corner. It’s a block down from where we are.  Is that okay?”

  
“Wait at the entrance, I’ll be there in a minute,” he responded, throwing the stick shift back into drive and pulling back into the street.

  
There was nobody that he could see in the CVS except for Anna Maria, who hurried out to meet him as soon as he pulled up, shoulders hunched.  She flung herself into the passenger’s seat and slapped on the seat belt before sinking back, arms crossed.

  
“Where ‘we going?”  Clay asked.

  
“My house, thanks.”  Cool. Other side of town. Alright.  He pulled back out and headed back the way he had come from, past the apartment building towards the center of DC.

  
“I’m not going to ask you about anything, but I want to make sure if you’re…okay?”

  
“I’m fine.  I mean, nothing happened.  Angie just said that she got invited to a college party and said that I should come along, but then everyone got drunk and it was sort of a mess.  I wasn’t comfortable.”  She was hugging her arms to her chest now, and Clay could tell just by the tone of  her voice that she wasn’t telling him everything.  Then, quieter, “thanks for picking me up.  Sorry for waking you up so late.”

  
He snorted.  “It’s no big deal, like I said.  I’m glad you called me instead of, you know, trying to get home on PT.”  He rubbed his eyes as he stopped for a red light, the rest of the intersection being devoid of cars.  “If that ever happens again, please, call me.  Or your dad.  Or Hayne, I’m sure he’d be happy to come get you.”  
“He’s also literally on my father’s payroll, though.  He’d tell him about it right away.”

  
Clay raised his eyebrows.  True, that.  “Why don’t you want your dad finding out about you going out?”

  
She shrugged, leaning against the car door.  “It’s not like it’s going to happen again.  I just wanted to go to one adult party to see what it was like and… I guess, to prove to my friends that I was alright with doing something like ditching a sleepover to hang out with some cool college kids.  And can you imagine what my dad would say if I woke him up at 1 am to pick me up from a really sketchy party in the suburbs?”

  
“Honey, believe me.  College kids aren’t cool by right of being college kids,” Henry responded.  “And I know that John’d be happy to make sure that you got home safe.” “And he’d never be able to look at me the same way again.  He would never have done something stupid like this, you know.  He would think that it was sloppy and irresponsible.”

  
“He’d be right, honestly.  Going out partying with people you don’t know is really risky, kiddo.  But come on, give him some credit, he was a teenager once, too.  He’d understand.”

  
“He’d judge me for it, though,” she grumbled, resting her head on her hand.  “And he’d never be able to take me seriously.  You know how he holds a grudge.”  
He snorted.  “Yeah, I definitely do,” he admitted, drumming his hands on the steering wheel.  A few seconds of silence.  A smile.  “Did you have any fun, though?”

  
“Oh, my god.”

  
“I mean.  I pulled myself out of bed in the middle of the damn night, I hope it wasn’t a complete loss.  Meet anyone cool?  Get drunk?  I know how to act sober when you’re not if you ant any cool tricks.”  He was grinning now.  She buried her head in her hands and groaned.

  
“You’re a really, really bad role model, Clay.”

  
“Hey, I’m just saying, I did a lot of suffering for my youthful excesses when I was your age, and I want to pass my knowledge on to the next generation so you don’t have to rediscover all of it. That’s the joy of parenthood.”  He flourished his hands dramatically.

  
Anna Maria snorted.  “Hands on the wheel, Clay.”

  
“Bossy.”

  
“Youthful degenerate.”

  
He stuck his tongue out at her and she laughed.

  
They pulled up at the Calhouns’ house fifteen minutes later, thanks to the lack of traffic and Clay’s sloppy, sleepy, speedy driving.  Anna Maria had her key out and ready as she opened the car door.

  
“Hey, I’m telling you, I’d be happy to give you a lift through the back window,” Clay offered.

  
“We’ve got a pretty good security system.  I hope that it would catch me if I did,”  she responded.  “I think I’ll just try to be quiet.”

  
“If he does catch you, you can use me as the fall guy.  Just make sure that your story makes sense, I don’t want to look too stupid.”

  
She stopped, half in the seat and half out, then reached over the divider and ruffled his hair. “Thanks, Clay.”

  
“Take care, kiddo.”

  
“Get some sleep.”  
“Hey, you too.”  She rolled out and closed the car door.  He watched her darkening figure as she unlocked the front door and slipped into the house, lingering for a minute to make sure that no lights came on.  Looks like she got in safe for now.  Good going, little Calhoun, sneaking out like a pro.  He smiled as he slowly drove off, thinking about teenage John Calhoun getting into trouble in rural South Carolina.

  
He’d be a fucking mess tomorrow.  He’d probably fall asleep at his committee appointment meeting.  But that was just … one of the joys of parenthood.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys, circa 1995 or so

Clay pulled cleanly into his parking spot in front of the building and took a second to admire his stellar parallel parking skills. He picked up his briefcase, twisting around in his seat to make sure that he didn’t leave anything important in the back (there was that time when he’d left his cup of coffee on the top of the car; that had been pretty fun, all things considered). He leaned up as he got out of the car, seeing the soft orange light coming out of the third floor street-facing window, and smiled.

It was dark out. The sun had set, leaving DC still sizzling hours after it had gone down, waves of heat floating like oil slicks off of the road. It had been dark by the time he got back for the past week or so now; he was needed everywhere these days, it was exhilarating, whirling through briefings, bill readings, conferences, back-door planning sessions and press conferences. He had an interview with Jay Leno coming up and he needed to make sure that he nailed his comedic timing. His legs ached as he unfolded himself from the front seat, keyed into the apartment building and pulled himself up the stairs, suddenly feeling very tired and very sweaty and very regretful that he’d agreed to an apartment that wasn’t on the ground floor.

The front door was unlocked. Unusual, given John’s concerns about ‘city life.’ As if DC was an actual city-city. 

“Hey, I’m home,” he called out as he banged through the door, kicking off his shoes into the basket in the closet. The sound of clinking glasses in the next room.

“Hey,” John called back, his voice muted, accompanied by Lady Madonna playing, half static, on the kitchen radio.

Clay peeled off his suit jacket and tie, unbuttoning his shirt to this collarbones and fanning it against his chest. Jesus, was it hot in here.

“Is the A/C out, or what?” He asked as he padded into the kitchen, where John was finishing up washing dishes. “Thanks for doing the dishes too, C, you’re a doll.”

John rolled his eyes, plunging his hands back into the sudsy water. “Of course. I talked to the landlord about it and he’s calling somebody to fix it up tomorrow, but there’s nothing that can be done about it right now. The power outage from earlier today probably knocked it out.”

At least the fridge was working. Henry opened it, leaning over and grabbing a bottle of hard cider and popping off the cap with the painted bottle opener magnet stuck to the fridge.

“Yeah, Quincy had a minor conniption when the lights went out at our offices. It’s going to be great tonight, though. We won’t need to shower tomorrow. We’ll just be bathed in sweat.”

“Oh, god.”

“We can stand on the fire escape in our underwear and nobody can say anything about it.”

“Imagine that on the cover of the Post.”

“Hey, you don’t have to worry about it, C, people wouldn’t mind seein’ you shirtless.” Clay laughed as he flipped the bottle cap into the trash. He turned around, then turned back and peered into the trash bin.

“When did you develop a taste for bourbon?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. There was a familiar label on a familiar bottle at the bottom of the bin.

“Oh,” John responded lamely, pulling the plug on the sink. “Had someone over this afternoon. I didn’t want to have to go all the way back to the office, and…”

Clay slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, piqued. “It’s fine. Which National Republican did you waste my good whiskey on?”

“Please, you know I wouldn’t invite any of them over. I’ve got standards.”

“Oh, this was about your bank bill?” He asked, pursing his lips. They’d definitely had this conversation before. That morning, actually, and probably last night, too. The papers on the table, covered in red marks from a slightly chewed-on pen, the stacks of takeout in the fridge, the bags under John’s eyes, all attested to the unspoken third party in their roommate relationship - the administration’s new Wall Street pet project.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. Secretary Crawford wanted to talk about a couple of points and he brought a bottle of Jameson with him, but I thought it would be more proper to use yours, since it was already opened and half-finished. Anyways, there’s a new bottle now, so there’s no need to get spicy.”

Clay stood up, taking his bottle with him. It was blissfully cool and wet in his hand. “No need for me to get spicy? You brought the Cane Murderer into our home and served him my booze and talk about your stupid HB10-fucking-9 and you tell me there’s no need to get spicy?” He could make this into an argument if he wanted to, he knew, but he could feel the sweat running down his back and his head was already pounding and he didn’t want to push his friend - his best friend, here, away. “You know, the Cane Murderer, he murdered someone. With a cane.”

“… He didn’t murder anybody, Clay, don’t be so crass. He just attempted to rough somebody up.”

“He attempted to cane murder the goddamn President. That’s as good as murdering, like, several civilians. Are you really going to defend him?”

“No charges were ever pressed,” John allowed himself a slow smile as he dried his hands. “And I agree with him in politics, at least, and I wish you’d at least give him a chance. Pennsylvania likes his chances for ’96.”

“Pennsylvania needs to get it’s head checked out.” Clay smirked, reaching over John’s shoulder to grab a glass and pour some cider into it. “Care for any?”

“‘m fine, thanks. I’m expecting a call from Crawford once he finds his records from the Cont’ Congress issues and I have an early day tomorrow.” John didn’t move for Clay, dark eyes lazily following his hand. The radio crackled and started playing Bernadette again.

“We always have early days, don’t we.”

“You don’t make them any later for me, that’s for sure.” He drawled, voice low, smirking? Could John Calhoun smirk? 

Clay took a deep sip of cider to draw his mind away from the creamy stroke of skin showing between the edges of the southerner’s button-down, the way his ragged fingers caught on his lips when he was thinking. He shouldn’t be allowed to roll up his sleeves like that; that should be a capital crime. It was too damn warm to have to put up with these…thoughts, again.

“My apologies. I just find the smell of cheap Boston cologne to be aggravating. You know what it does to my nerves.” He pressed a hand to his chest and John chuckled.

“I’m sorry. I must tell Webster to be a little less liberal next time.”

“Yes, see to it that you’re a little less liberal, too,” Clay smiled, taking another sip of cider. They were close now, caught between the counter and the awkwardly close island, John with his arms crossed and Clay with a handful of moist cold glassware. He could hear the rasp of his breath, carried and magnified by the humid air, he could almost see the hair prickling at the back of his neck, the way his tired, heavy eyes were staring at him like he wanted to pin him against the wall like a… like a cat pouncing on its prey.

When did he start looking at him like that? What did this oil-slick heat do to people? 

He set his cup down on the counter, gently, the air close and filled with the sounds of breathing. He was staring at John, still a little amused with his own pun, still not anticipating the other man’s trajectory towards him, bridging the gap, sliding a tentative hand to his hip and pressing a curt kiss to his lips. Their noses bumped, and Clay huffed with amusement. Sweaty. God. He kissed like he was in elementary school. Poor Floride.

He leaned forward a bit, catching John at the backstroke, kissing him again and resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. It was strange, kissing without intent. Just kissing, kissing for the sake of kissing, because you’d been having unspeakable thoughts bout your handsome, harried, brilliant co-worker since you were introduced a year ago and it felt good to savor the feeling of lips pressing against your own. 

It might have been the alcohol but he felt a little lightheaded and heavy chested, like somebody was pushing him backwards and pulling him forwards at the same time. He relished the little gasp that John made when he introduced teeth into the equation, his hand pressing briefly into his side, sticking his shirt to his skin. This was what lips were invented for, for taking apart adult men who’d never frenched.

 

The phone hanging up on the side of the fridge burst into life, ringing shrilly. John actually jumped a few inches, jerking back and knocking into the counter, eyes wide. He looked to the phone and lunged to grab it. If Clay was disappointed, he wasn’t letting his face betray it. He shrugged, picked up his glass, and turned to leave for his bedroom where he could lounge in a towel with the window open. He heard John answer the phone as he left, his voice deep and trembling slightly. Crawford the Cane Murderer, always with the worst timing.

He lay awake in bed, still listening to the sound of the conversation in the kitchen, listening to John’s voice and the very faint choral accompaniment from Brown Sugar, since John apparently couldn’t be bothered to turn the radio off during a phone call.

Clay set his alarm and lay on his bed, sweating, head still spinning, not willing to brush his teeth and ruin the physical evidence of that brief and strange….whatever that had been. He wanted to make sure that it hadn’t been some temporary stress hallucination brought on by too much work and dehydration.   
The dark eyes, the cold glass, the empty bottle of bourbon, and the damned DC heat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Compromise bill

  
Another day, another dollar.  Another hard boiled egg from the carton in the fridge - he hoped it was a hard boiled one and not a raw one that he’d marked with a B last night when he was too tired to think logically.  40 hours awake would do that to you.  40 hours awake and 4 hours of sleep afterwards left you sitting at your kitchen table, half dressed, staring at an egg.

  
“What are you waiting for it to do?”  Clayton asked from his couch.

  
Clay tapped it against the rim of his bowl, still staring at the space where it had been.  “I’m dreaming about throwing it at… some particular individuals.”

  
Clayton looked back at the tv, playing on low volume in front of him.  “You’re probably gonna need more eggs if you want one for each person you’re pissed at.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
He heard his name and perked up, letting pieces of shell drop onto the table as he twisted around to watch the screen.  CNN was doing a special early morning report on the ‘secret’ budget committee meeting the night before.  What information they could have that would be even moderately interesting or germane would be news to him - the point of a secret committee meeting was that nobody knew what the fuck was going on, after all.  It had only ended five hours ago, and it had been a complete, unmitigated failure.  His hand-picked committee of six ended with two walkouts (Rives and Calhoun) a shouting match (Calhoun, Clayton and Grundy) and a member (Dallas) exasperatedly turning to snapchat to document the whole incident, just so everybody knew how badly Clay’s attempt to compromise had turned out.

  
For some reason - for some damn reason - it was like a knee-jerk instinct for him to stick his neck out for the nullies.  Yes, he just had to try and mollify the most aggressive, prickly, fault-finding clique in Congress, at great risk to his already shaky reputation with his more liberal, sane constituents.  Maybe he was just a political masochist at heart; he loved the pain.  That might explain the Adams election clusterfuck.

  
“A morning report from the Jackson administration reiterates the President’s commitment to upholding federal law in South Carolina, and states his readiness to use what he calls ‘drastic measures’ to implement it,” the reporter continued as the two congressmen watched.  “Sources near federal military bases in the area have continued to report increased troop activity, signaling the possibility of a national guard intervention in the near future.  We’ll get back to you with any reports from South Carolina or the Vice President.  This is Anne Royall for CNN Washington…”

  
Clayton hit mute.  Clay salted his egg.

  
“Well?”  Clayton asked after a sip of coffee.

  
“Well what?”

  
“Have you heard anything from Calhoun yet?”

  
Clay checked his phone.  “It’s, like, 5 in the morning, I think he needs to sleep off that screaming match from last night.  And besides, why would he want to talk to me?  I expect him to reach out to Dallas or Grundy, if anyone.  Least they’re Dems.  I hope that they get our version of the bill before he does, just so they can take a hard stand on it.”

  
“If he takes a hard stand on it.  You know he’s going to ask for a 5% cap.”

  
Clay shrugged and took a bite of egg, looking out the window to the slowly brightening sky.

   
“Not if Jackson threatens to pop a cap in him.  If you know what I’m getting at.”

  
“You want to run that risk?”  Clayton asked, glancing back at the tv.  “If we wait too long, I don’t doubt that we’re going to see some violence.  I think that we need to start worrying about what’s going to happen to Calhoun if he stays here - physically here, in the capital - after everything that’s happened since last spring.”  
Clay yawned sympathetically.  “The South Carolinians act badly, Clayton, but they’re decent people, and it’d be a shame to give Jackson the pleasure of shooting him.”  
“Yeah, I’ll be first in line to do that, thanks,” Clayton shot back sarcastically.  Clay snorted.

  
After they’d left the capital last evening, he and Clayton had gone to his apartment and gotten to work on a newer version of the pre-CBS budget that had caused so much trouble that afternoon.  It was a monster of a document, almost 400 pages, a marvel of modern politics, and he could see Calhoun and McDuffie tearing it to shreds when they read it.  They wouldn’t agree to their tax increases, their proposed import duties, their army spending, the same things they’d been yelling about yesterday - especially the taxes and duties.  Until Clay brought them to heel the bill stayed a dead letter.  And as long as their special committee didn’t report a budget for passing, though, the debate remained an open wound that was starting to fester in the hot DC summer, thanks to a hundred other confounding political variables that led from a minor disagreement about taxes to ‘the possibility of a national guard intervention.’

  
The session ended in a week.

  
Seven days to pass this patchwork zombie of a spending bill before Wacko Jacko went all Whiskey Rebellion on the South Carolina government and started using the F-35s that he had bought.  The president was probably rubbing his hands together with glee at having the chance to try out his new toys.

  
Clay’s phone buzzed.  He’d been blocking all non-essential calls for the night after getting one too many from his contacts in the media asking for details on what they were starting to call the ‘Carolina Crisis’ (or the ‘Calhoun Crisis’, according to the Intelligencer, which was probably a more accurate name.)  It was Robert Letcher, the other Kentuckian senator, whose quiet, unassuming manners helped him worm his way into the tightest spots.

  
  
are you done with the revisions?  
>Done and ready to upload.

  
  
i’d wait on that.    
webster’s starting to ask questions, syk. talked to mcduffy (sp?) he’s leaving town. grundy will give it a soft yes, w strings attached + compensation for displaced workers. that only leaves VP. you need to corner him yourself.

  
  
“Who’s that?” Clayton asked.

  
“Letcher.  Apparently the Dems are starting to turn over or get out of Dodge and he wants me to talk to Calhoun.”

  
“See?  Great Compromiser.  C’mon, where’s the Clay charm we’ve all heard about.”

  
“Drowned it.  In three cups of coffee,” Clay retorted.  Clayton stood up, stretching, his wilted button down pulling out of his slacks’ waistband.

  
“You’d better find it.  If you don’t get his support, you’ll end up arguing with a corpse VP by next week.”

  
Clay sighed, pushing the egg shells into the trash.  It was his instinct to put himself on the line for the radicals, he knew.  And there was something appealing, as much as he hated to admit it, to the idea of swooping in at the last minute to restore sane civil government and snatch the glory from under Jackson’s nose.  The thought of condoning violent, open rebellion made his stomach turn - maybe that was the three cups of coffee - but he preferred a small evil to a great one.

  
>get me a time and place and i’ll be there.

* * *

  
  
8 in the morning found him sitting in the passenger seat of Clayton’s car, an annotated copy of the so-called Force Bill in one hand, his phone clutched in the other.  In the back seat was his chief of staff, Corwin, doing his best to keep a light mood, and Robert Hayne, Calhoun’s own right-hand man.  As it turned out, a secret sub-committee of a secret committee was a difficult thing to arrange, requiring several calls made through the congressional staff up and down the chain of command, a few emails on the secret server and a spate of threatening text messages.

  
And one awkward car ride to the Russell Senate Offices.

  
He looked at Hayne through the rearview mirror, pale and washed out from the low, rainy light coming in.  He had barely moved during the whole ride other than to send a text message and gently, exactingly, adjust his cuffs.  Clay’d heard from the rest of the Democrat staff that he was actually a nice guy and a great boss, but they were probably just happy that they didn’t have to answer directly to Senator Calhoun.  He just put the perfectly dressed Charlestonian automaton out to do his dirty work for him.  How like him.

  
Hayne and Corwin were making small talk, the steady hum of their voices adding to the sound of rain and Sunday morning traffic outside.  They were probably used to this kind of frantic last-minute logrolling, Clay thought.  The congressional staff were the midwives of this messy, hectic, dangerous and unpleasant process of legislation, the cogs behind the clock face, quiet and discreet.  He was glad to have Corwin; at least he had a noticeable personality and a sense of humor.  Clay had liberally used maxims from West Wing when he picked his staff - Tom was his Leo McGarry, the man he trusted above all else in politics.  And now he’d trusted him to help Letcher set up this morning tete-a-tete with Calhoun.

  
He glanced at Clayton, who has his usual worried look on his face.  As they were leaving that morning, they’d gotten the news that three US military grade warships were on their way to Charleston harbor.  It was a sure sign of more force to come; a few thousand tons of firepower right in front of the biggest city in the state.  Did Calhoun know that?  He looked at Hayne through the mirror again. Unflappable.  Maybe he didn’t.

  
“Thanks for the lift, Bob,”  he said, managing a smile.  Clayton looked at him.

  
“Least I could do,” he responded hoarsely, not taking his eyes off the road.  He should have asked Corwin to drive; neither of them had slept enough.  “I’m not the one who has to prevent a civil war, but I can be your chauffeur while you do it.”

  
Clay rested his head on the headrest as he mentally recited his opening statements.  He was falling back on his lessons from his Wythe days - lex paciferat, lex rex.  He was making a legal case to someone who was in no real position to bargain, but who was too powerful to alienate.  

  
Kill the bill, your state legislature continues to hold back taxes, you’re dead.  If you die than I can make you a martyr and use Charleston against Jackson next election.  But then you risk a full civil war, which is…suboptimal.  Wouldn’t want to be president of half a country, right?  I work with you, I get the glory, win your support for the rest of the Jackson presidency, build a strong new coalition with an intractable radical Democrat sect and keep you alive and your state unharmed - that’s the best outcome. No blood spilt.  Let’s look at the numbers, shall we?  I have some recommendations that I think you’ll be amenable to.  Let’s be reasonable.

  
Clayton stopped in front of Russell and Clay, Corwin and Hayne stepped out, pulling out their umbrellas and hurrying up the stairs.

  
“I’ll text you,” Clay said to Clayton before he closed the door, flashing a smile that his heart wasn’t behind.

  
The other two were waiting for him in the empty rotunda, tapping their umbrellas on the floor and talking amiably about their early lives in politics.  Clay pulled off his raincoat and draped it over his arm, looking around.

  
“Letcher’s office, right?”

  
“He’s waiting,” Hayne drawled with a smile.  “I presume you know where you’re going.  I’ll wait out here and give you two some time alone.”

  
Corwin raised his eyebrows at Clay and he stifled an urge to snort.  He’d told Corwin exactly as much as he needed to know about his relationship with Senator Calhoun, messy and complicated as it was, just in case it ever came up again.  He hoped it never did.

  
“You’re alright here?”  He asked.  Corwin nodded.

  
“I’ll find something to do,”  he replied.  “Someone here needs annoying, I’m sure.”

  
Clay turned away and swept down the hallway.  He couldn’t hear anything else but the sound of his heels on the linoleum as he found Letcher’s office and took a second to straighten himself up and make sure he had his materials.  He’d changed into his best Intimidating Professional suit, leaving off his trademark waistcoat and wearing his reading glasses pushed up to his hairline.  It gave him a harried look, like a man who’d been up all night trying to save the country.  After a cursory reflection check in the shuttered window, he knocked on the door.

  
“It opens,”  he heard, muffled, and he cautiously came in.

  
It was a cookie-cutter office, straight out of the 90s except for the modern computer monitors.  The door to Letcher’s private office was open and he could see a pair of black leather shoes propped up on one of the chairs inside.

  
“Did you hear the news, Calhoun?  Jackson’s taking a pleasure cruise at Fort Sumter,”  he called out mildly as he ambled into the office, letting his umbrella drop against one of the desks on his way.  “You should send them a gift basket.  Don’t think you can afford to piss them off.”

  
Calhoun was sitting at the desk, his laptop on his lap and a pen clipped to his lower lip, looking as poorly rested as Clay.

  
“Clay.”

  
“As promised.”  he held out his hands and let them fall back at his sides.  “Are you ready to talk some sense now?  There’s nobody here that you need to impress.”

  
Calhoun pressed his lips together, glaring at the door.  Clay glanced behind him, following his line of sight, then leaned over and closed it.

  
“I like how secretive we’re being about this.  It makes me feel like we’re in a spy movie, you know?  I love this sort of thing.  Sneaking around and making secret contacts.  That’s why I always whipped you in Clue.”  He collapsed into the rolling chair next to the desk, letting his long legs sprawl out.  “I hope that we get a chance to run away from an explosion or foil a crime syndicate, something cool.  We might need to pick up some sunglasses on the way, though.  Got to look cool while doing it.”

  
“Why do you insist on joking about this?”  Calhoun shot back.  “I don’t have the time for your stupid jokes, my state is under martial law and my head is under a god-damn sword and you’re joking about it.”

  
“Sorry, I’ve been trying to be serious for the past two months, and you blew me off.  Thought I’d try a different tack.”  Clay shrugged, smiling.  Easy on the bitterness, champ. “Especially now, since you have…extra incentive to be flexible, I guess.”

  
Calhoun stared at him.  He was probably trying to look affronted, but the fear and exhaustion in his face made his effort fall short.

  
“If you’re suggesting that this show of force will somehow make me abandon my political convictions, you’re wrong.  You’re wrong and you should know me better by now.”

  
“I know that you know that it’s better to make a tactical retreat and live to fight another day,” Clay responded, taking out his laptop and setting it on the desk.  His legal approach was falling apart - Calhoun needed a little bit of flirting before he made a move.  Get him all hot and bothered with some small talk, and then they could have some fun.  “And I’m just stating the obvious, John.  We both know that if we don’t leave this office without a deal, you’re going to see a lot more than a show of force.  I’m not going to let you leave without a deal.”  Then, softer.  “Please, let me help you.  I don’t - I know you’re set on your opinions, and that’s fair, but I’m not gonna let you die over them, alright?  Please.”

  
He leaned forward his knees, only a foot or so away from Calhoun’s, hands clasped together like a prayer.  He wouldn’t do well in federal prison, he thought.  Who would remind him to eat?  Who would rib him until he smiled despite himself?  He was already too thin and too haggard. They’re good men, Clayton, I can’t give Jackson the pleasure of shooting them himself.  Imagine blood on the Charleston boardwalk.  The apocalyptic wail of sirens over a shattered city.   Hayne’s tasteful grey suit slicked with reddish brown. Back when Calhoun and that one Rep - California - he should remember his name - had had their confrontation, he’d casually imagined what it would be like to hold that dark head of curls against his chest, heavy and wet with blood, gathering him up on his arms while the sound of sirens got closer.  He’d almost cried when he heard Calhoun ask for his advice, imagining all the ways a duel could go wrong.

  
911, what’s your emergency?  Well, my colleague/housemate/roommate/bedmate/lover/soulmate is dead, and I feel like I’m going to die, too.

  
Again.  “Please. I’m-“

  
“Fine.  I’m here, after all.”  Calhoun didn’t meet his eyes, but his shoulders slumped.  He seemed almost relieved, albeit heartbroken.  Even Crisis Calhoun had to bow to the inevitable at some point.  “And I have an annotated copy of SB1257 that I’d like to discuss.  I have the same reservations that I did last night, and upon reading sections 3-a and 3-b I’ve found a couple more points that I’d like to address.”

  
Clay reached across the divide and clapped his hand over Calhoun’s with a smile, relieved, too.  It was going to be a long morning.  
  


* * *

  
The new budget was introduced the next day.  He’d given himself a little time to prepare for the inevitable fallout, doing what little he could do - he and Corwin decided that it would be best to let the cards fall how they might and explain it to his allies later.  Margaret Smith was notified that something big was going on, a few other choice reporters, and the members of the select committee.

  
Why did you give up American industry protection?  Where’s the Henry Clay that advocated to eloquently for the ’duty of the comfortable to the suffering?’  What happened to the flat import duties that he’d been pushing since the nineties?  They’d had questions that he couldn’t answer outside of ‘well, I’d rather not let the president start a civil war.’  Oh, Webster was going to have fun flaying him alive for this, he knew (forget the fact that he’d flipped on the issue himself once or twice before.)

  
But at least he could milk a little drama out of it. He knew what everyone else’s cards were and what plays they were going to make, and even if he took heat for it, he’d have the trump card in the end.

  
After all of it, the hours of fighting, teeth grinding, pen gesticulating and BLS referencing, all the cloaked, bitter references, he had John.  And John had him.  
And as the senator from Kentucky stood to address a full gallery and a complete assembly of senators to present the newest report from his select committee for voting, he could feel the tired grey eyes pinning him to his spot.  He wanted to turn around and see the look on his face - pride? relief? pain? love? but he didn’t want to spoil the punchline yet.

  
It wasn’t until he sat down, cold with sweat as the debate started up, that he let himself look - the senator from South Carolina was standing by his desk with one hand raised solemnly, chin up, eyes flashing, waiting for the crowd to quiet down so that he could have his turn on the floor.  They knew that he was a terrible actor, a terrible raconteur, an exasperatingly plain speaker and a terrible joker with no sense of timing.  No appreciation for the dramatic - he’d cut straight to the heart of this new bill and say the same thing that he’d said about the last three.

  
The assembly had expected a Whig bill and they’d gotten something different, and they were reeling, looking for a familiar point, and so they quieted down for for a scathing rebuttal from the senator who’d let his state burn over a few percentage points.

  
But they didn’t know that senator as well as he did.  Somewhere under that cast-iron mask, they were more alike than they seemed.  Their eyes met for a second and Clay thought he could see a glint of excitement in his drawn face as the last noise died down.  All their backstage work.  A long windup for a short punchline.  He’d be watching the C-SPAN footage for years to come.

  
Calhoun turned towards the dais again, solemn, and started talking.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Call me, Clay had said genially as he passed by on the way out of the rotunda, letting his hand linger gently on his shoulder, sweeping out of the hall and leaving a wave of reporters and stunned junior congressmen in his wake.  

  
He was making the very testy assumption that Calhoun still had his phone number somewhere, and had updated it through his changing cell carriers.  
He’d be right, but that was entirely beside the point.

  
After his pronouncement there’d been nothing else of note to cover - the din from the galleries had been too loud for the pro tem to quiet anyways, and only a few other senators were brave enough to venture to make a comment on the new ‘compromise’ budget bill.  Its enemies needed an evening to regroup and restrategize, and until then it was generally accepted that the day was ending a couple of hours early.  It was a drizzly March day and nobody wanted to stay in their seats, anyways.  The pro tem (it had been almost a year since he’d sat up on that dias as VP, he remembered) had closed the session at 12:00 sharp.

  
Calhoun had excused himself and shouldered, elbowed and blustered his way through the crowds with tactical ‘no comments’, down the maze of hallways that led down to his office.  His phone was buzzing furiously - he could imagine Governor Hamilton on the other end, having a shrieking fit.  Like he’d be able to put up with that twit on a day like today.

  
“Hey!  YOU!” he heard a booming voice yell after him.  He stopped in the middle of the hallway, turning.  For god’s sakes.  On a day like today?

  
“What the fuck was that?” Webster snapped, his whole body tight with anger as he stalked towards his colleague, standing impassively in front of him.  “What the fuck?”

  
“That-“  Calhoun hooked his fingers in his belt loops. “-is called politics, I’ve been told.”

  
“How could y-“  Webster was practically frothing, eyes blazing, hands curled into fists.

  
“Why are you yelling at me about this?  You should be happy.  I’m making a concession,” Calhoun responded, letting that last word drag out.  “Or did you not go on about how our stubbornness was going to get us all killed?  I could have misheard you.”

  
“Do you know how hard I’ve fuckin’ fought for the protection clause?  How hard we fought?” Webster hissed, waving a finger between them.

  
“In 2003, perhaps.”

  
“Alright, I’ve had it up to fucking HERE with you, pal.” Webster’s voice dropped.  “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, shouting about anarchy and playing chicken with the administration to prop up your presidential ambitions, but-“

  
“Senator Calhoun!  Could we have a statement on Clay’s bill!”  A college age-ish ABC-7 news reporter was sprinting down the hallway, holding a mic in front of him like a sword.  Webster turned, piqued to have his frothy rage interrupted, and Calhoun took the opportunity to turn back and speedwalk down to his office, slamming the door before he could face any more of Daniel Webster’s wrath.  No self-respecting Congressmen would break into the sanctity of another’s office without at least knocking first, but he continued to speedwalk to his own private office, just in case (his deputy secretary and her gaggle of interns looking on in alarm.  They’d find out soon enough.)

  
He didn’t relax until he locked the door and closed the shades, leaning against the wall and staring at the American flag wavering flaccidly in the A/C by his desk.  His team knew better than to disturb him when he was in his room alone, so he should be safe for now.  He rubbed his eyes.  Call me.  They’d already talked about everything they had to talk about, right?

  
He sat down at his desk and gingerly adjusted his pen stand and stapler.  He stared at the corner of the door, then at his desk phone, which was blinking with unopened voice messages.  Almost unconsciously, he opened his top drawer and took out the laminated sheet of Senate phone numbers and traced it down to the C section.  
No, he thought, dropping it back into the drawer like it had stung him and slamming it closed.  No!  Bad John!

  
He buried his head in a hand and pulled out his cell, keying in and swiping down the Fox homepage that popped up, unrefreshed, still stuck like it was when he checked it an hour ago.  They’d probably have a breaking news segment on right now about the escalating military crisis in South Carolina and… something about the Force Bill and the new budget….  Sean Hannity…  He pressed the home button and found himself scrolling through his email, then clicking through his contacts, scrolling lazily down the list…

  
Goddamn it!  He dropped his phone on the desk and sat up straight in his chair, his hands palm-down on the desk.  This was getting ridiculous.  Was he actually considering calling Clay after telling him that he didn’t want to see his face again?  What sort of game was the man playing?  He’d gotten what he wanted - he’d gotten the glory of ‘saving the country’ - he should have dropped Calhoun as soon as possible.

  
He sighed.  The A/C was a little too high, pushing stale, cold air right to the back of his neck, making him shudder uncomfortably.  He could hear footsteps and muted, concerned voices outside.

  
Clay.

  
Where to start with the man?

  
On one hand, he hated him.  He hated his self-righteous liberalism.  He hated that smirk that he wore when he knew that he had somebody in the corner, and the diplomatic smile that replaced it when all eyes turned back to him.  He hated his pathetically conciliatory nature - oh, yes, he’d fight you tooth and nail for the petty things, but he’d be hanging on to your foot begging you not to walk out when you gave him an ultimatum.  It was below him.  And he hated that he let him get under his skin.

  
And, oh, he especially hated how much he felt for him.

  
He hated how excited his self righteous liberalism got him, since it always meant that they’d have a good debate.  He hated how much it thrilled him, the prospect of plunging in to another fight with him.  When they were younger he’d get a burst of adrenaline whenever the Speaker took to the floor - surely nobody could go up against a force of nature like him and win.  Now he could go up against him - he commanded his attention and demanded his respect - now he thrilled to the thought of sparring with him.

  
But mostly, honestly, he hated himself.  The fact that this connection, this tenuous ghost of a love affair could still press so heavily on his chest, was a testament to his weakness.  He had done everything in his power to scrape it out, burn it out, poison whatever vestiges of Henry Clay remained clinging to his soul, but it was remarkably tenacious.  His heart had spent, what, a few years in the habit of hitching whenever he saw him, but the muscle memory was as strong as it ever was.  He’d given up on working against it and was trying to learn how to live with it.

  
He picked at his thumbnail, lost in thought.  The touch on his shoulder.  An affectionate brush.  What was that supposed to mean?  Was it a punch that mostly missed?  Did he know what that brief moment of contact would do to him?

  
He knew Henry Clay better than almost anybody in the world, he realized.  He’d known him for 20 goddamn years, a lifetime, practically.  He’d seen him play games with other people, stringing them along and charming them until he’d gotten what he wanted from them.  He’d also seen him achingly, desperately lonely, sitting in the darkest part of a depressive episode, too tired even to reach out for him when he came offering comfort.

  
Call me.  Maybe that was a come on.  Maybe it was a call for something.

  
He picked up his phone again.

* * *

  
“Hello - oh, uh, hey.”

  
“Hi.”

  
“What’s, um.. Sorry, I didn’t expect to see you.  Here.”

  
Calhoun raised the plastic bags he was holding in his hands and pressed his lips together.  “I brought food.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
“It’s takeout.  From Chao Ku.  I got you lamb.”

  
Clay’s face hadn’t lost the look of confusion, but he let the door open a little more.

  
“…Thanks?”

  
“Mm.”  Calhoun let his hands fall to his side and looked down, blushing.  Lamb was his favorite, last time he checked.  Maybe it’d changed.  It probably did, damn it.  “I figured that calling would just be - delaying the inevitable.  If we’re going to start talking to teach other, we’re going to have to start it face to face.”

  
“Yeah?”

  
“Mm.”  He shuffled his feet.  “So?”

  
“You should probably come in.” Clay looked up the stairs behind him.  “The neighbors’ll start to talk otherwise.”

  
“Mm.”

  
He moved in, shuffling past Clay, styrofoam boxes crunching together.  He felt overdressed, still in his suit, Clay having stripped down to slacks and a rolled-up button-down.  He set the bags down on the conspicuously empty kitchen table. The whole apartment was pretty empty looking, except for the usual ring of clutter, official papers and phone chargers, orbiting around the couch.  He felt cold again.  Then, he felt a hand press against his arm.

  
“You could have texted me or something, didn’t have to drop in out of the blue.”

  
“Mhm.”  The clench of his chest nearly bucked him forward into the table, but he willed himself not to turn around, not now that he was blushing and unable to put together two English words.

  
“John?”  The hand moved to his waist. He could feel the warmth of his arm pressing against his back.  “John.”

  
No, Henry Clay never knew when to let go.  Cutting his losses was never his strongest suit.  But then again, maybe he wasn’t as good at it as he thought he was.  It was bad enough to know when to let go but not being able to do it, knowing that the light will incinerate the moth eventually but still moving towards it, pressing against the warmth.

  
Letting him press himself against him.  Letting him press his lips to the corner of his mouth.  This was weakness, this was a special kind of self torture.  His hands were moving by pure muscle memory, reaching up to touch his face and press another mouthy kiss to his lips.

  
A phone call would have been a better idea, yes, he thought, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull them flush against each other.  He could have continued to hold himself at arm’s length from this brilliant, unbearable man and from everything that he couldn’t have on principle, just like he’d done for the past ten years. He could hold on.

  
Or, he thought, as hands traced down the front of his chest, he could let go.

  
And then he stopped thinking altogether.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin Van Ruin always be showin up

  
His grandfather was a first-generation immigrant, fleeing from the possibility of  Nazi invasion.  He established the proud Van Buren tradition of proactively removing themselves from the path of danger, whether or not the danger ever came to pass.  A family that would plunge into the fray, but not before assessing their chances of success.  Moeder used to tell him that it was integrally important to act, not just to react.  Plan ahead.  Make sure that you’re ready for anything.  You’d be surprised how many people don’t do that, and they envy and hate the people that do.  The smart ones who have contingency plans.  Always plan ahead, Martje.

  
He had a plan.  It was a long one, and it straddled the line between best-case and worst-case scenario.  He made sure that he had a response for every possible predictable result.  When you looked closely enough at any political scenario, it was really just a complicated economic equation - you define all the variables and values and you should be able to predict the outcome with reasonable certainty.

  
His long term plans, approximately: frustrate every legislative plan that President Adams put forward.  Cleave off the southern and midwestern support that had allowed him to scrape up a victory in the election.  Set Crawford (or, if necessary, Jackson) up for the next election, make himself invaluable to the victor and then claim his reward.

  
His short term plans:  make the Panama congress an embarrassment to cripple Clay’s diplomatic program.  Package together a tax bill so atrocious that only the liberal-liberals would vote for it, blame it on Adams.  Most importantly, find some way to turn the Vice President’s head away from the administration and towards the burgeoning Republican power in Congress.  The first goals were easy enough, nothing that he hadn’t done in New York.  He wondered how difficult that last point would be.  The name Calhoun still dredged up Daily Show clips about the War Hawks in his mind - but he could see him wavering.  He’d spoken out about the elector fiasco and condemned Clay.  The first chink in the opponent’s armor.

  
He needed to plan.

  
“Senator Van Buren.  I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”  The Vice President stepped out of his office with a tight-lipped smile.  Van Buren clasped his hands over his knee and smiled.

  
“Not a problem.  You’re busy running the country, of course.”

  
Calhoun snorted and sat down on the couch across from him, stiff as a mannequin, as usual.  “I’ve been carrying the Southern vote for the whole election, so it’s… nice, to take a break.”

  
“Strained your back, eh?” Van Buren joked, leaning back.  He relaxed his face, slinging his arms over the back of the chair.  Look open and inviting.  His eyes flickered over the man across from him, taking in the crossed arms, stiff posture, tight jaw.  Strange, most elected officials got more than a week or two before the honeymoon period was over, but Mr. Calhoun seemed unhappy already.

  
“Anyways, what did you want to talk about?” the Vice President asked, eyes narrowed.  How different from how he’d greeted the New Yorker five years ago when they first met.

  
“Well, of course, I wanted to offer my congratulations, and my hope that we’d be on good terms this… term.  It will make things much easier for both of us if we find some common ground.”

  
“Thank you for the congratulations.”  his voice was still tight.  He’d seen what Van Buren could do, and evidently he wasn’t as willing to trust him as he was the ingratiating , starry eyed freshman senator that he used to know.  “But I’m sure you know that President Adams has very set ideas of what is appropriate conduct for his administration.”

  
Van Buren let himself grimace.  “I wouldn’t have guess -“ he stopped himself.  “I was just suggesting that we try to put an amicable face on things.  I know that there are issues that we don’t disagree with, we could focus on those.  I could help you, you know.”

  
“I don’t know why I’d need your help, Mr. Van Buren,” he responded cooly, tapping his fingers on the arm of the couch.  He probably had a press conference to go to.  Maybe a ribbon cutting ceremony.  Very important things for the Vice President to do. “We may not have a majority in the Senate, but we’ll be able to get the works bill passed easily.  Our constituents are generally in favor of Latin American intervention and they don’t mind the idea of university support and funding for the sciences.  And if the House doesn't share their opinions, Taylor’s more than capable of convincin’ them that it’s in their best interests to think otherwise for the House vote.”

  
Van Buren quirked his lips up.  “I know they’re more than capable.  But I was talking about you in particular.”

  
Calhoun stared at him.  Perhaps he was being too forward.  “If you’re offering me some kind of deal, Mr. Van Buren, it would be not only tasteless, but-“

  
Van Buren waved him off, shaking his head.  “No, no. Not at all, don’t worry.  I know how you feel about that, you’ve made it very clear.  And I respect that, Mr. Calhoun.  I respect it and I agree with it.  The American people deserved better than Adams’ smear campaign and corrupt bargaining.  They deserve to have honest public representatives, right?  They deserve better than Henry Clay.”

  
Calhoun leaned back a little, like he’d been pushed, exhaling.  He was thinking the same thing, Van Buren thought, but he didn’t want to put it into words.  Why?  He and Clay had been close, he knew, but he’d heard that they’d grown apart.  If it were him he’d be happy with the opportunity that the corrupt bargain charges had given him to break from a moribund administration with a dismal president and an overbearing Secretary of State.

  
“You’re right,” Calhoun announced, a moment later than he should have.  “They do.  There’s nothing I can do for you though.  I have an obligation to this administration, regardless.  I won’t - I refuse to publicly undermine Adams’ credibility.”

  
Van Buren raised his palms over the top of the couch, smiling beatifically.  It was Clay, then.  The flush of Calhoun’s face.  The cuticle-picking.  The chink in his armor. 

“No, of course.”  But four years is a long time, he thought.  You don’t know who you’ll be supporting next election, and what they’ll give you in kind.  “But I’m glad that we won’t have to be wasting our time with petty personality fights, anyway.”  he stood up, straightening his jacket.  “Once again, my congratulations, Mr. Vice president.”  God, what a pathetic title.  Calhoun stood too and they shook hands, Van Buren’s small and compact and neatly manicured, trapped in Calhoun’s.

  
“Thank you, Senator.  I look forward to working with you.”  Van Buren bowed his head and left the front office, heading out of the EEOB, taking a moment to admire the White House as he left.

  
Henry Clay. Who would have thought.

 


End file.
